


My Side of the Street

by Scriptophilia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Awkward Dates, Baker Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Cas is a germophobe, Denial, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-03-30 22:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19036753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriptophilia/pseuds/Scriptophilia
Summary: Castiel is finally able to open up his own dreamy little bakery right on the edge of town, next to open countryside and nothing else. That is, until the old garage across the street opens up again and disrupts Cas' peace and quiet with large, sweaty, men crashing through his shop every day. He hates it, he really does, especially the one by the name of Dean Winchester, who just can't seem to leave him alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'd like to preface this by saying yes, I am nearly all of the way caught up (as of 5/31/19, I'm working through season 14 which has FINALLY been added to Netflix). So any inconsistencies you see in this fic are just me being stubborn and ignoring canon. Oops. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Castiel was humming contentedly over a mixing bowl full of cake batter, breathing in the enticing aroma of the cherry pie in the oven, and swaying gently to the triad of beats in the waltz playing through tinny speakers. He was also being jerked out of his serenity by the abrasive sound of metal on metal coming from the shut down garage across the street. He scowled and slammed the mixing bowl into the counter and tugged his shirt sleeve down over his hand to push the glass door open. The tinkling of the little silver bell did nothing to mask the din emanating from the other side of the road. It was 6:30 in the morning, who could possibly need their car fixed in a garage that closed down a decade ago? Cas turned angrily on his heel and retreated to the comforting pastel interior of his bakery, but not before wiping his hands down. Thirty minutes later he flipped the sign to open.

 

That's when all hell broke loose.

 

A half dozen boorish, sweaty men were stumbling through his store, tracking in dirt and grime. They were grumbling, cursing, and shoving fistfuls of money at a trembling Castiel who didn't quite know what to do with himself. He suddenly felt incredibly small in his white apron and gingham shirt in comparison to the man now looming over him in his muscle tank and work boots, begging for pastries. _You're fine,_ he thought to himself. _Nothing to worry about. You've had a steady stream of customers before, this is no prob-_ he bit back a yelp when one of his glass cake stands, thankfully empty, tumbled to the floor and shattered into a surfeit of shards. One of the men, an older gentleman, muttered something along the lines of an apology, and was ushered out by his friends when Cas was eventually able to press two boxes of pastries into the dinner plate hands of the man at the register. A crumpled wad of cash lay on the counter. Cas left it to sit there and stare him in the face the rest of the day. Damn all this.

 

The rest of his day went on like usual, a comforting sort of normal. He made small talk with his regulars, baked to his heart's content, and made a good amount of money. All was well when he found himself turning the key to his tiny apartment in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the city. Not the most ideal location, he would admit, but he didn't mind. The large windows in his living room provided a stunning view of the city, one he preferred to watch rather than be in. Nestling into his sheets, he prayed tomorrow would be better.

 

Lo and behold, it was not. Most of the guys didn't come back, which was a win in Cas' book, but one did. He leaned across the counter in his grimy, grey jumpsuit. It was all Cas could do to not sneer at him, to be polite.

 

"How can I help you?" He said cheerfully through gritted teeth. The man cracked a winning smile.

 

"I just wanted to apologize for my guys yesterday, first day open and we wanted to start it off right, y'know?" Cas stepped back from the counter.

 

"No, I don't know. What I _do_ know is that you all came in, dirtied my floors, and broke my things." The man sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. 

 

"I know, I know. I'm really sorry though, okay? I'll make sure we'll be careful." He offered up a lovely laugh, one that Cas would not be opposed to hearing again. "Can't say it won't happen again, though. Those pastries were freakin' good." Cas, though still most definitely angry, had to purse his lips to suppress a smile at the compliment.

 

"Alright, then. Make sure it doesn't happen again and you all can come here as much as you want," he said. "Within reason," he tacked on last minute, just to be sure. The man was still leaning on his counter, backing up a few customers. A glance down at his name tag told Cas his name was Dean. He silently celebrated choosing not to wear one. Another dazzling- no, annoying- smile from Dean.

 

"Sweet, how about a slice of that pie?" he asked, pointing to the steaming apple pie cooling on top of the display case, fresh from the oven. _Anything to get this man up and out of here_ , Cas thought, so he cut into it as fast as he could, grabbed the money, and shoved his to-go box at him, deliberately speaking to the customer behind him. _Please just go, please just go, please just go._ Except, he wasn't leaving. He had the gall to SIT DOWN and eat it there, right in the middle of the seating area. Cas plastered on a grin and pretended he wasn't there, pretended there wasn't an absolute nuisance in his bakery, pretended that the garage was still closed and that he- _Dean_ didn't exist.

 

 Just when he thought his day was taking a turn for the better after Dean threw his trash out and left, though not before yelling how "That was some damn good pie," his phone buzzed. Dreading to look down, he realized his gut was right. It was his brother, Gabriel, texting him in the middle of the day.

 

_-Hey, little bro. I had to skirt before I could buy anything, but who was that pretty hunk of man you were chatting up?_

 

Cas groaned audibly. His brother meant well, but really knew how to put him on edge.

 

   -No one.

   -Just a new customer.

   -He wouldn't leave,

 

Minutes passed.

 

   -And I wasn't chatting him up.

 

He thought everything was over and done with, but as per usual, Gabriel needed the last word.

 

_-Sure you weren't. Invite me to your wedding, lover boy._


	2. Chapter 2

"Can you go bother someone else?" Cas griped, already tired of what was to come.

 

"Hey now!" Dean exclaimed, propping his elbow on the edge of a napkin dispenser and just _leaning_ there, like he owned the place. Dean waved customers around him, as if to imply that he was just here catching up with an old friend. Which he was not, and would never be, because Cas did not want to be his friend, nor did he want to talk to him. "Don't think I caught your name," Dean drawled, offering a hand to Cas, who had a visceral reaction.

 

"Oh, would you look at that! Cookies are done." He bolted away from Dean, who was left standing like an idiot with his hand in the air and trying desperately to pull off the old "I'm just moving my arm to rest here instead" move. Then, the door opened. Cas was used to this, as it signified a paying customer. Except this time, it was accompanied by the entrance of a gruff southern man, also wearing the drab one piece uniform of the garage.

 

"Fancy seein' you here, Dean! I hadn't gotten my hands on one of them pastries yet after your buddies ate 'em up so quick. Heard they're mighty good, though." He, too, offered a hand to Cas, who gave a small wave instead. "How'd you get this one, Dean? How can anyone resist this southern charm?" Cas felt the beginnings of anger boil up inside of him.

 

"Excuse me, but he hasn't _got_ me. What he's _got_ is a one way ticket to not being allowed back here if he keeps this up," he quipped while boxing a few cupcakes. He hated to be rude to customers but he felt like this one deserved it. Him and his dumb, perfectly symmetrical face and his stupid, pretty green eyes. No, pretty stupid. Not stupid and pretty. Yeah. His eyes and face were pretty stupid. Cas snapped the rubber band he kept on his wrist for infuriating moments like these. _Get a grip, Castiel!_ He yelled at himself. Dean did nothing but bark a laugh.

 

"Aw, c'mon Benny. Let's get back to work." Then they finally, after fifteen agonizing minutes, decided to be on their merry way back to the stinking, grungy mechanic's garage staring him in the face through his nice glass doors. All he wanted to do was go home for the weekend- finish his shortened shifts, sit down, put his feet up, nurse a glass of wine, not have to deal with this mess. He had a party to cater for on Saturday, meaning he'd make good money, and could go home early. An added bonus, the day after was Sunday, meaning the source of his sudden onslaught of stress and irritation would be closed. Then, finally, with the sun setting and washing the bakery in a warm orange light, he was able to.

 

* * *

 

 

For the most part, that is. As Cas would come to find out, the party he was catering was a grand re-opening party. For the garage across the street. The order was placed by Benny from earlier. How hadn't he noticed? _Just my luck_ , he thought with a sigh as he checked his order form. He cursed himself, the sheer amount of things he'd need to bake meant that he needed to be here at least three hours earlier than a normal, full-length weekday shift. So, he went home and went to bed so he could worry about things in the morning.

 

Morning came and Cas peeled himself up from his mattress, threw on whichever clothes were clean, made himself look presentable, washed his hands, and left. He was in quite a hurry this morning and needed to be in his kitchen as soon as possible to even hope to come close to the sheer amount of baked goods he'd have to produce. Sometimes he cursed himself for going it solo. But he didn't have time to worry about that now- he had no time for interruptions. As soon as he was at the door to his bakery, he felt someone clap him on the shoulder.

 

"I heard Benny got you to cater!" Cas gritted his teeth and jerked away from the unwanted contact, shuddering a bit as he did. He blamed the involuntary shiver on his aversion to germs and, well, others. It was Dean- what a surprise.

 

"Don't touch me," he said, still tired and his voice gravelly.

 

"Oh, grumpy are we? C'mon, man, lighten up! I didn't even get your name, because you never told me yesterday." Of course he remembered. Cas had half a mind to lock the door, which he hadn't even opened yet, behind him.

 

"Cas." He regretted that. Then, as an after thought, he made small talk. Something he regretted even more. "It's five o'clock in the morning, what are you even doing here?" This man was far too chipper for someone who had just gotten up at half-past too early. Dean gestured widely to the garage.

 

"We're prepping! It's a whole-town affair. I decided I'd come and see what's shakin'. So, what's shakin'?" Oh, lovely, Cas had the lingering feeling he'd be hearing that a lot more in the future, as well as the lingering feeling that Dean wasn't going to go away, was he? "Also, I like your name. Mine's Dean, but I guess you already got that. Uh, Winchester, by the way. Dean Winchester. Also, is your name short for something?" Cas eyed the cup of coffee in the man's trembling hand. Ah. So  _that's_ why he was word-vomiting all over the sidewalk. Cas decidedly told him no in response to his question and that nothing was "shakin'," then went inside for some solitude.

 

Of which he found none, because there Dean was, in all his caffeinated glory, standing behind him in the middle of the kitchen.

 

"What?" Cas snapped, already upset and stressed out. Dean was rooting through a bag of piping tips, his coffee (thankfully) abandoned. "Put those down!"

 

"How do you use this stuff, anyway?" Dean asked, coming over to peer over Cas' shoulder while he set out bowls for later. Cas remained silent, praying that if he ignored the man standing directly behind him that maybe he'd just go away. "Can I help?" Cas clenched a fist.

 

"Fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is physically painful to have to write out what's basically my own accent for Benny. Also, cross my heart Cas is going to be nicer to Dean in the future! He's just got to get used to it, because Dean's gonna stick around.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a name planned out, I'm not THAT* lazy! It's plot development!

Needless to say, Dean was a disaster.

 

"Here," said Cas, surprised at himself with the softness that blanketed his voice. "How about you just give me things when I ask for them? Sous chef, if you will?" He thanked his lucky stars that Dean agreed and wasn't going to try to argue his way into the actual baking. Crowley, who ran the town's bank, would likely be at this party, and Cas needed to make as many perfect blueberry scones as he could to keep the man happy.

 

He paused for a minute to think about what he'd do if he could get the loan he'd been hoping for. For starters, he didn't even have a sign for his shop, let alone a name. Everyone just referred to the place as Cas'. Which, in all honesty, he was okay with- but he entertained the idea of formally naming it all the same. He'd finally have the money to get real ovens and not the old ones people donated to him- he'd been lucky so many people were renovating their homes. He'd be able to repaint the fading walls, maybe get another display case- he had endless possibilities. Lucky for him, Crowley took a shine to him when the bakery opened up, much like the oven that Dean was-

 

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Cas yelled, regaining possession of a cookie sheet full of snickerdoodle dough, panicking slightly at the thought of him contaminating the food other people were going to eat. "I... Sorry. You have to preheat the oven. It's got to heat all the way up before you can put anything in it. If you don't wait it'll mess up all kinds of stuff in your recipe and it won't turn out right." He surprised himself for the third time that morning, the first two times being him agreeing to let Dean help and his sudden patience with the man. Cas set the tray down on the chipped, white countertop and shocked himself a fourth time. "Wanna learn how to make these?" Dean, who was so attentive during Cas' "preheat your oven spiel" that one would think they were at boot camp and Cas was the drill sergeant, was now nodding vigorously and was instantly at Cas' heels like an attention-starved puppy.

 

"I'd rather learn how to make some of that killer pie, but ya gotta start somewhere. What do I do?" He had a too-small banana yellow apron on and a whisk in each hand. Cas spared a laugh. "Well, I can tell you it's not that. C'mere." Cas disappeared into the pantry at the back of the kitchen. _Oh, come on, Castiel!_ He thought. _What's your issue? He comes in here all "What's shakin', Cas?" And now you're letting him ruin your kitchen and touch all of your things? I'll tell you what's shakin', you son of a-_ He snapped himself out of it.

 

"Hang on. Did you wash your hands?" Dean stared blankly at him.

 

"I... wiped them on my pants?" Cas recoiled and felt his eye twitch.

 

"Do it. Now." He paused, then added, "Please." Dean hung his head in defeat and scrubbed them down with soap. "Better," Cas sighed. "Just follow my instructions, yeah?" Cas had him make a half batch- and certainly not one that would be served to the public. He kept a watchful eye on Dean while he worked on his own confectionaries. Dean however, was losing focus on what he was doing and kept turning to watch Cas. Watching Cas meant bothering him as well, apparently.

 

"Hey, why doesn't this place have a name?" He inquired, abandoning his snickerdoodles entirely.

 

"Because it doesn't." Cas was hell-bent on whisking his batter, so he did not see Dean throw up his arms and don an "I give up" expression. Dean miraculously decided to attend to whatever monstrosity it was that he'd whipped up in his own bowl. The rattling of a cookie sheet alerted Cas that perhaps this man needed more help than he previously thought. Dean was trying so hard to form the dough into little balls but did nothing more than, well, Cas wasn't really sure what they were. 

 

"Hang on, try this," Cas said, leaning in uncomfortably close to Dean. He blamed the heat of the oven for the tingling in his cheeks when they bumped shoulders or brushed hands. _You're only helping him out, Cas,_ he thought. _You shouldn't even be doing this anyway._ Cas just wanted to show Dean how to shape his hand, it was just that grabbing his hand was part of the process. Dean pulled back faster than Cas did at a handshake.

 

"Listen man," he said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "We start soon, I, uh, I gotta, I gotta go. Just, um, maybe refrigerate it for me?" Dean said, trailing off and practically running out the door. Mildly hurt, Cas just shrugged and went back to his own projects. Less people to deal with meant more peace and quiet and work getting done.

 

* * *

 

 

After another two hours, everything was finally boxed up and loaded onto his cart to be brought across the street. He was desperately hoping he could get in and out and go home. The place was already teeming with people, somehow, so that did not appear to be an option. He drew in a deep breath and headed over.

 

Everything was well and good, he made some small talk with his regulars, set everything out, and actually ended up having a very pleasant conversation with Gabriel, which was surprising. The conversation being nice, that is. Not Gabriel being there. He'd be at any party he caught wind of, no matter what the vibe was. Though, surprisingly, he'd left unusually early for him. The older gentleman who had broken his cake stand had struck up a conversation with him. It was interrupted by Dean bellowing from nearby. Cas winced at his sheer volume. 

 

"What's shakin', Cas?" It was, admittedly, growing on him. But only a little bit. Cas politely moved the hand that hand been on his shoulder- again, might he add- and took a small step back. 

 

"Oh, I was just dropping some stuff off," he said, simultaneously eyeing the door and scanning the crowd for Crowley, whom he very urgently needed to speak with. He felt himself deflate when he couldn't spot the stately man milling about. "I'm heading out." He could kick himself all he wanted, but damn it if the look on Dean's face wouldn't make him stay. 

 

"C'mon, Cas! It just gotten started, surely you can stick it out a little longer hanging out with us peasants a little longer without holing up in your castle, right?" Well, he sure as hell felt bad when it was put that way. Distressingly fast, he resigned. He would much prefer not to be in a dirty, grimy garage. In fact, a familiar panic was rising in his chest at the thought of what these people had been touching, or all the dirt tracked in on the mechanics' work boots. But people were starting to try and talk to him. One of those was Dean, and Cas was very confused as to why someone he'd only just met would want him around. Or anyone, really.

 

"I can give you fifteen minutes, but then I'd like to go home," he sighed, already tiring himself out. Dean shrugged in a manner that suggested compliancy, and disappeared into a group of people wearing similar uniforms. He decided that Dean would be occupied for quite some time, so he took his leave then rather than waiting.

 

As soon as the glass door shut behind him, a wave of relief washed over him much like the soapy water his hands were in. He scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to rinse away that slimy feeling like he'd just dipped his hands in oil. Satisfied, he started down at his fingers. His knuckles were rubbed raw. He needed to be careful or he'd open sores again. Cas reveled in the peace and quiet for a time, then ducked out the back to trek home, deliberately avoiding passing the party so certain people would leave him alone. His phone vibrated in the pocket of his jeans.

 

_"Hey buddy, it's Gabe."_

 

"I know who this is."

 

_"Well, that's good. Did you see Crowley today?"_

 

"No."

 

_"I'm in your apartment, talk later. Ta!"_

 

The line disconnected and Cas started down at the screen bearing his brother's picture and contact information. That explained where he'd gone, then. So much for relaxation.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I say this even though it's been almost two months. I've had a lot going on in my life, but I hope you enjoy this!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all- work and school really do get the best of you. But here's a chapter, I hope you enjoy it!

Cas threw down his keys on the rickety table that resided by his front door. They slid unceremoniously to the floor with an abrasive  _clank_ , but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He couldn't find Crowley at the party, Dean Winchester was too far into his business, and his own brother had broken into his apartment. He crossed his arms, hoping to look agitated but coming across more defensive than he liked, and snapped "What?" at Gabriel, who was reclined on a threadbare sofa, right next to the spring that Cas would sit on from time to time when he wasn't paying attention.

 

"Hey, little bro!" Gabriel drawled in that unsettlingly relaxed voice of his. Thankfully, he removed sneaker-clad feet from the worse-for-wear coffee table before Cas burst a blood vessel. "So, I've got a little proposal for you." Cas felt his shoulder tense and he begrudgingly took a seat on the sofa, albeit as far from his brother as possible.

 

”What’s going on, Gabriel?” He asked, more of a demand than a question in hindsight.

 

”So, Crowley ain’t giving you any kind of loan until, what was it he said?” He paused, then snapped his fingers with gusto. “Until you can pick up business and prove to be more than a Sunday bake sale,” he concluded in a scarily good impression of the banker. Cas balled up his fists and shoved them into the cushions as hard as he could to prevent him yanking his own hair out. His eyes prickled with tears threatening to make an appearance and his anger stole away the air in his lungs.

 

”What do you mean work harder? Pick up business? I’ve been- I’ve been doing this by myself for- for-“ he choked on his wet anger and could only focus on the situation at hand rather than the shaking in his shoulders or the wobbling of his chin. The dumpy little bakery was Cas’ whole life, he couldn’t afford, in any sense of the word, to throw it all away.

 

Gabriel tapped a finger on his chin, feigning hard thinking, which is something Cas knew had never been coded into him. “What he’s saying is that you need to prove that you can be successful. He’s got a profit to make too, you know.”

 

Cas’ eyes burned hot with liquid rage. His whole life he’d worked for this. He’d done it all without borrowing a penny, and now he couldn’t get a loan. What really rubbed him the wrong way was that Cas needed a loan to do exactly what Crowley said he had to do to get a loan in the first place. He was going to revamp, make it look nice. Buy a sign. Gabriel must have caught onto his obvious distress and more obvious, albeit valiant, attempt to disguise it, because he instantly changed his tone of voice.

 

"Hey, hey, hey, Cas," Gabriel crooned, lunging forward to comfort his trembling younger sibling. "It's all gonna work out, yeah? Everything'll be fine, I've even got some ideas." Cas jerked away from the initial touch, both from reflex and burning anger. He wasn't sure who he was mad at, maybe Gabriel, maybe Crowley, maybe the world. Cas, after a moment, leaned in just a tad to the comforting hand hovering near his shoulder. Gabriel gave it an affectionate squeeze and continued on with his ideas.

 

"I'm going to help you advertise. And, no, before you say anything, I'm not getting you employees and I'm not opening another location, okay? I'm just going to get word out, and maybe even help you in the kitchen. I'll be abysmal, but it's the thought that counts, right? I know this means a lot to you." Cas had a brief, traumatizing flashback to Dean with his hands sunk into ruined cookie dough. 

 

"Yeah, alright. The thought that counts." Cas perked up a little bit, the roaring tide of emotion finally ebbing away, even if it was just the tiniest bit.

 

"Wanna get a drink?"

* * *

 

Cas hadn't the foggiest why he'd obliged. Bars were filthy. People were touching everything, each other included. There were simply too many of them crammed into one dark, sweaty space, coughing and spraying spit as they spoke. He could feel himself starting to choke on the thick panic that settled in the back of his throat, but found himself tailing his brother into the dim, wooden cave like a lost puppy. Maybe he needed a drink. Maybe it would loosen the hard knot of stress he'd been trying unsuccessfully to untie.

 

"Gabe?" He called out after losing his brother. He tried again, but to no avail. Fortunately, he spotted a weathered, bearded man sporting a trucker cap tending the bar, chatting with someone as he cleaned a glass.

 

"Hey, Cas! Wasn't expecting to see you here tonight. Or ever, actually. What can I get for you?" He said, abandoning both his task and conversation.

 

"I- I don't know, Bobby. Whatever's good," Cas half-mumbled. He was getting anxious, and would much prefer to be back home, even though this place was probably considerably nicer than his place. Bobby nodded, filling up a glass with amber liquid, then wiping down the glass again before sliding it to him on a little paper coaster. Ever the conscientious one, Bobby Singer was. He said something about "being right back" and scurried down the bar to fill up whoever's glass with whatever was in it. The man Bobby had been talking to turned around to see what was what.

 

"Hey man, what's shakin'?" He said cheerfully. Cas felt himself wilt a little bit. Half his beer already gone, and him being much less than a lightweight, he was already rather fuzzy in the head, but just sober enough to make what he hoped were good decisions.

 

"Hi, Dean," Cas replied scooting away in his chair and trying to disguise it as shifting his weight. In the low, yellow light of the bar, Dean's eyes were more gold than green, and his full, pink lips were pulled into a smile too bright for this atmosphere. Cas blinked hard, hoping it would go away. He couldn't be thinking that, not about Dean. Dean, who Cas wanted nothing to do with. Dean, who could stay in his stupid garage with his stupid cars and his stupid face and keep well enough away from him. He should tell Dean that he would be finding his brother in a moment so he wouldn't have to sit here anymore. "I'm good," he noticed his mouth say instead while his brain rushed the catch up.

 

When the brilliant smile didn't fade, Cas knew he was in for something. "That's good," said Dean. Somehow, through the cottony feeling in his head and the tingling in his fingers, Cas was able to focus, and Dean's gravelly voice was the only thing he was able to hear over the din of the bar. Looking back on it, he didn't even care about the germs lurking everywhere. He tried to shake himself out of it. _He's only pretty because you're drunk, Cas,_ he told himself, a second beer drained and his mind numbed. If there was a class lower than featherweight, he was the champion.

 

"It, um, yeah it is," he babbled stupidly. He pinched his leg. Damn it, why was he such an idiot? If he could get it together, he'd be long gone, but no. Not with Dean clamped down like a vise on his attention. They had leaned in rather close in these last few moments. So close, in fact, that Cas could pick out constellations from Dean's freckles if he really wanted to. There was a brush of nervous fingers between the two barstools and little puffs of warm, timid breath. Cas could not comprehend the brew of thoughts that had been stewing in the now-capsized pot of his mind. He wasn't sure who leaned in first, and he wasn't sure what would come of it.

 

Until a sharp pain erupted in his forehead and he recoiled, hissing in pain and clutching his forehead, glancing up to see Dean doing the same. Dean had a wild look in his eyes, one that told Cas everything he needed to know, then he got up, turned around, and left. Yes, his alcohol-ridden mind wanted to kiss him. Yes, he'd still hate him when he was sober. Maybe.


End file.
